


My Life In Retirement

by cuupid



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Chinese Kate Bishop, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Past Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 20:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18454340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuupid/pseuds/cuupid
Summary: Clint Barton has been a man of many different names.He has been Barney's Baby Brother. He has been the vigilante and superhero  Hawkeye. He has been Agent Barton of SHIELD.And now he's ready to be Clint Barton... thirty-seven year old retiree?





	My Life In Retirement

**Author's Note:**

> A little while ago i saw this piece of meta about just why MCU and comic Clint Barton could be so different. 
> 
> Long story short, the more I thought of Clint hiring an actor to take his place the more I fell in love with the idea, and the more wild my imagination ran.
> 
> Kate and Clint here are heavily influenced by Fraction's take on them and, in true MCU fashion I have taken some liberties with timeline, and such else.  
> The Young Avengers aren't formed yet, but Clint and Kate are Hawkeye. Kinda. Also, I don't recognise IW.

_Okay,_ Clint thought, stairs digging into his back and side as he rolled wildly down them. _This looks bad._

"Hey!" the voice of Bad Guy Number One, disjointed and guttural, came from somewhere above him, "Which one are we after?" 

"What _which_ _one_? There is only _one_ one."

"I swear it to God, bro, there's two of them."

The sound of a hand hitting the back of a head rang out in the deserted building. "There is only _one_ guy. And he is dead now." An ensuing scoff.

Clint’s head met the landing before the rest of him did.

With a _crack!_ that echoed sharply, his skull slammed against thinly carpeted floor, and the jolt of pain— as if one hundred people had landed a perfectly timed kick along the length of his spine— made Clint wish Bad Guy Number Two was right.

"I swear there was two," he spoke again, more unsure than a moment ago.

"Whatever, man. Only one was shooting at us."

The idea that he could steal a nap without being noticed wormed its way through Clint’s mind.  
It took an almost Herculean effort for him to force his eyes open; to force the thought away.

He stifled a groan that threatened to rip from his throat, raw and stinging.

 _So bad,_ he thought, giving up on counting off how many bones he had fractured during his tumble and just deciding it was all of them.

Talking filtered hazily down to him. Half-sentences and electric crackles, enough to know the damn Stark tech hearing aids were busted. Again.

His bow, at least, had gotten out better than he had.

A quick examination of the sturdy weapon revealed no more than a new chip in the paint to match the plethora of others, a slight dent near the bottom to mirror the one near the top.

 _Perfect_. At least, as close to perfect as anything Clint owned could be.

A man of all odd angles now, Clint considered himself. Katie would be proud of that one, if he ever remembered to tell her.  
His body twisted up the length of the steps and his neck bent at an uncomfortable ninety degrees. With reluctant ease, Clint shrugged it off; he had been through worse. Much worse.

Bad Guy Number One leaned along the upper staircase railing. His eyes trained on Bad Guy Number Two fiddling with a cigarette, they were lost in idle conversation.

Raising the bow to his eye, Clint didn't even bother to aim for any shred of subtlety. Not that he was capable of that, if Nat was correct.

Deep inhale. Ignore the growing pain of cracked ribs. Aim at Bad Guy Number Three— Clint rapidly blinked. _Bad Guy Number Two_.

So, Clint sighed. It seemed he had another concussion to add to his ever-growing collection.

Deep inhale. Aim. Neither man paid him any mind, certain of his demise, and it was almost too easy.

The arrow flew free. It just grazed the man's arm, nipping a scrap of his shirt before it stuck solidly into the wall.

" _What_?" one of them shrieked. Clint couldn't tell who.

"You're still alive, man?" Bad Guy Number One spun around and asked, grip on the railing so hard his pale knuckles showed ghostly white.

Clint scrambled to his feet. "Yeah," he answered, hand going to the back of his aching neck, "I'm still alive. Thanks for that, by the way."

"That's thirty-seven steps, man. That was enough to kill my grandma— God bless her soul– and you're still alive?"

"Yup." Clint stretched his arms over his head. "That's me. Still alive."

What was the exact etiquette required here? Was he also supposed to bless this man's dead grandmother's soul?

He wasn't sure, but he did so anyway.

Bad Guy Number Two— Clint really should have asked their names before they'd tried to throw him to his death— rubbed away at the shoulder Clint’s arrow had barely touched and, leaning over the railing, loudly spoke. "What are you?" he began. Incredulous. "You a cockroach, man? You some kind of Cockroach Man?"

The man sniggered to himself, more humoured by the joke than anybody around him.

"It's _Hawkeye_. You know, like the— Never mind." He breathed out an exasperated sigh.

 _Cockroach Man?_ Clint was absurdly close to setting something on fire.

The mobsters hands moved almost imperceptibly. Steady, but not slick enough for Clint to miss any of it— he saw them reaching for their guns as they spoke.

Bad Guy Number One nodded, mouth pulled into a frown as he voiced his agreement. "You look more like a Cockroach Man to me."

"Yeah. Okay. Okay." Clint sighed. Shaking his head slowly, he drew two of the least crushed arrows from the quiver strapped across his back. "Cockroach Man. That's me."

Why did these guys even want to kill him again? Maybe it was the concussion, or the fact that this was just another Monday to him, but Clint couldn't really remember.

He raised his shoulders in a shrug, all too ready to just be done with all of this bullshit. The arrows were let free, and he was out of there before the arrows found a home in either of the Guys' legs.

Their rising wails, the soundtrack to his exit.

He needed three pizzas and a beer.  
After that, he needed a week-long nap.

 

* * *

 

"Nice suit." The familiar voice seemed to float from the shadows.

The greeting halted Clint for a moment. Left him halfway through his creaking window before he fully recognized its owner.

"Is it _Gucci_? A _Vera Wang_ creation, perhaps?" she asked, the smirk just barely heard in her voice.

Landing lightly on his toes, Clint banged the window shut behind him. "It's a Barton original," he said, turning an exhausted smile on Natasha.

"Cute." Vibrant red hair bright in the drawn darkness of the apartment, blue eyes glinting, she crossed and uncrossed her arms. "Purple."

"I can't hear you well in the dark," Clint said.

He slipped out of his boots, threw his mask on the floor without caring to look where it landed.  
The hearing aid was almost all crackling now, no matter how much he played with the frequency. _Useless._ They followed the way of the mask, landing with a clatter.

Natasha regarded Clint carefully. Moving out from the wall of darkness, she turned on the apartment's lights.

"Look at me," Nat signed; standing across from Clint, taking him in coolly. "You look like shit."

His hands moved sluggishly. That nap he was thinking of seemed all the more inviting as the minutes ticked by.

"Thanks," he replied. "You look good."

A black-gloved hand waved towards the growing costume pile. "How do you keep breaking those?"

"Damn things were made to be busted." Clint snorted.

The zip in his vest caught and he rolled his eyes as he struggled to get it all the way down. It took a moment, and a minor battle that Natasha snickered at, but eventually fell to the floor with a jingle.

Nat let her eyes roam down his torso, over the series of scars etched into his skin.  
He wasn't embarrassed about it, wasn't ashamed to undress in front of her. Not when she had seen him in far less.

"They're Stark tech," Nat crinkled her nose and searched for reason.

" _Mass-produced_ Stark tech." His counter emphasised with a prominently raised hand.

The floor, cold and in need of mending, creaked under his bare feet; groaned at Clint’s weight as he made his way to the kitchen.

Lucky sat wedged between the slightly overflowing trashcan and the crumbling wall, nudged Clint’s passing leg. Barked a second greeting.

Clint returned the greeting with a salute and an imperfect smile.

He tossed down a piece of the week old pizza he had found behind a wall of sodas— When had he bought those exactly? Not important. Probably Kate's doing.

Lucky chomped happily at the pizza. And, that alone, grew Clint’s smile into something wider and unevenly more crooked.

"I've got news," Natasha stated, once Clint was facing her again.

Leaning over the counter, arms rested close together, she and Clint were mirrors of each other.

Shoulder-length hair fell in her face as she shook her head, declining a bite of Clint’s half-eaten slice.

 _Aww_ _man_ _,_ he thought disdainfully.

Eyeing Natasha, he deliberately chewed his mouthful of pepperoni much longer than needed; he really did not want to hear any news.

Nat raised a fine brow, impatient and expectant.

He knew Natasha, as well as anybody ever really knew Natasha. Of course, he should have known that the visit wasn't another attempt at simple reconnection.

"I'm getting too old for this," Clint said on the tail end of a sigh. He dropped his pizza to the counter and smiled at the grimace Nat pulled her mouth into at the _plop,_ at the _squelch_ she had grown unused to hearing once they stopped seeing each other as much. "SHIELD." He waved a hand, his fleeting smile falling. "All of it."

"Then maybe I've got bad news."

Some days he felt everything. The hair growing over his childhood scars, the thumping of his heart as it tried to break pass his ribs, the heaviness of all the blood in his veins.

Some days it was a plain and awful nothing.

Today, watching Natasha run a sharp nail along the underside of her chin, he could feel it all and more. Gut-wrenching, bone-deep exhaustion, and he was tired of it.

"I don't think I have anymore bones to break, Nat."

"Look, I promised Fury that I would talk to you. Let me just talk to you."

He scratched at the spot behind his ear. "I don't know."

"Just listen." She chucked a pair of hearing aids at Clint across the narrow counter. Brand new and Clint’s signature purple, they only barely missed the pool of grease. "And here, have these. It's not Stark tech. Not mass-produced, either."

"Shouldn't you offer the bribe _after_ you give me the spiel?"

Crossing her arms over her chest and darting her eyes quickly over Clint’s shoulder, she made a rushed _tch_ sound. "Don't make me acknowledge it's a gift."

Clint paused. The smile he cast upon Natasha was gentle, soft. What he had ever done to deserve her, he didn't know.

"Thank you," he said instead.

A string of cheese hung off the slice of cooling pizza. Twirling it around her finger she popped it in her mouth, bobbing her head almost absently, as if momentarily lost in thought.

Natasha drew out a sigh. "You want me to get straight to the point, Barton? It's SHIELD."

"It's always SHIELD."

"This time." She glanced away. "This time it's different. They want you as an Avenger."

"Tasha... I don't know what that is, but I already don't like how it sounds."

Cool hands settled over his. Too briefly for Clint’s liking, there and gone before he could clasp back.

No dancing around, no dodging; straight to the point, just as she had promised.

The explanation was direct, too soon becoming a fuddled mess of _superheroes_ and _Captain America_ and what sounded like more and more and more _work_.

The more Natasha spoke, the further and further Clint sunk into himself.

"No," he groaned once she had finished, his hands clinging loosely to the edge of the counter. "No... Yes... No."

"Clint."

"Nat—" he signed, a little too sharply. "I don't know. I don't know how I feel about anything. I'll get back to you."

" _Clint_." As well as Clint knew Natasha, she knew him better. "We have the opportunity to save the world a hundred times. A thousand times."

"I don't need to save the world." He pushed the chair back with no more than a kind of tired force. "I've never needed to save the world."

"Clint. You are a liar." There were her hands again, moving to cup his stubbled face. She spoke, letting Clint read her lips. "You've always needed a purpose. It's why you joined SHIELD, why you run around playing hero for this neighbour."

"Mostly. I was jealous of Iron Man," he whispered.

"'Mostly.' In the beginning. But not now, not anymore."

He placed a kiss to the inside of her palm— a reflex action— before he tugged her hand away. "Kate. Lucky. This little neighbourhood. Protecting them _is_ my purpose. I can't do the heavy lifting anymore, Natasha. Not like you."

"Promise me you'll think about it."

"Sorry, Romanoff, visiting hours are over. Feel free to stay or to let yourself out."

"Clint—"

Clint ignored her. He trudged to the stairs.

He didn't think he had anymore words to get him through the rest of the day, the passing pat on Natasha's arm possibly all the communication he could spare.

Halfway up the stairs he turned to look at Natasha.

Clint met the steady gaze that had probably never left him. "I'll do some thinking," he said. "I promise."

 

* * *

 

Crouched in an alleyway— that's how Clint chose to spend his first free Friday afternoon in months.

In sweatpants and an old arrow shirt, a mask hastily thrown on, he was in what Kate had once dubbed his 'Classic Trash' look.

Kate came to mind and Clint reminded himself, as he had been reminding himself since Wednesday, to reply to at least one of her texts. And soon. Before she started thinking he and Lucky were dead. Again.

The hint of an only vaguely familiar, grating, voice came from around the corner. " _— ncing queen... young and_ _seventeen—_ "

Clint dropped his head into his palm.

When _exactly_ would his retirement be starting?

"Not soon enough," he murmured, just loud enough for it to not echo, springing fluidly from his crouch and into the man's path.

"Huh—!?" The exclamation followed the startled jump back he took. Jaw hanging loosely open, he let himself be pulled without fight to the alley in which Clint had been hiding.

"Bad Guy Number Two." Clint nodded a greeting. Fisting the mans shirt into a tighter hold, he tried for the intimidating deep voice and narrowed eyes. "We meet again."

Of all the thing he could have went for, he had thrown out the most cliché line.

He bit back sour embarrassment, grateful Natasha had not been around to hear that.

"What, bro? _What_?" He threw his hands up in defeat, a punctuation to his sentence.

"You tried to kill me." He forced thick venom into his voice. It took an effort; Clint didn't really care about that day anymore.

"Dude. _Man_. Dude. _Bro_." Bad Guy Number Two spluttered. "I'm done with that. Deal retracted. Bygones and bygones, bro, you know what they say."

Clint pressed him further against the wall, held him in place with an arm to his throat.

"You going to kill me?" he coughed.  
Clint didn't miss the wildness of the fear flashing in his wide eyes.

The thought hadn't even crossed Clint’s mind. "Not if you help me out."

"Yeah. Yeah, man. Anything."

"You remember Wednesday?" Three days ago, weighing on his mind as if it had spanned months. He waited for Number Two to nod. Continued. "Who was that other guy you saw? The one who you thought was me?"

"That was a mistake, okay? No hard feelings— I helped you. Now you let me go."

"Who _was_ he?"

Vaguely, the other man gestured to his jeans pocket. Then to the arm still pressed firm to his throat.

Clint sighed, but let him loose.

"My name's Ivan, just so you know," he said, after taking in a deep breath.

Clint allowed a non-committal hum.  
He watched Ivan closely as he searched through his jeans, ready in case the man went for a well-hidden weapon.

Nothing, thankfully.

Ivan pulled out a picture, folded into a neat square and fit nicely into his back pocket, and held it out for Clint to see. "See, an actor, dude. Had a mask like yours in some movie. No hard feelings."

"You. Uh." Clint paused, scratching at the nape of his neck. "You just carry that around with you?"

Not the strangest thing Clint had seen. But definitely a first.

He dropped his gaze to study the grainy photograph, catching sight of  Ivan's answering shrug from the corner of his eye.

Brunet where Clint was blond. Clear-skinned where Clint was marked with endless scars.  
He looked like the kind of guy who would miss a target if it was painted toxic green and the size of the Empire State Building.

He guessed— if he _squinted_ really hard _—_ they could pass as something like brothers.

A little more rough edges and the man could probably be Barney.

For the moment, at least, he would have to do.

"You got a name for this guy, or something?"

Ivan shook his head. Shrugged.

"Okay, Ivan," Clint sighed. The picture folded easily back into the small square, worn that way from being worked in and out of form. "Thank you for your help. You've done a great good to the world today."

Clint made to slip the picture into his own back pocket.

"What are you doing?" Ivan halted him, tone frightfully cutting.

"Taking... This... With me?" The words uttered with a jerking hesitancy.

Hand stretched towards Clint, he shook his head in pointed disapproval. "No," he firmly stated.

 _Aw nuts_ _,_ Clint dropped his head and followed Bad Guy Number Two— _Ivan_ _—_ to the nearest Internet café.

 

* * *

 

"This isn't going to work," Natasha, perched on the backrest of Clint’s ancient couch, said.

Pictures taken from sketchy fansites, DVD covers with the discs crammed in barely working players or half-stuffed under thick rugs splayed across the floor in messy fans.

Clint, in the midst of it all, gave an uncommunicative grunt in response, hitting his palm to the side of his laptop.

"Damn thing," he muttered.

"Okay." She folded her arms over her lap. "This guy— Jeremy Reynolds—"

" _Renner_ ," absently, Clint corrected.

"You think he's a good actor?"

He moved his gaze to Natasha's, a brief meeting of eyes before he flicked them away. "You watched all those three movies _with_ me."

"And, yet, you still decided to hire him."

"Decided to _think_ about hiring him."

"Can he even shoot—"

The front door opened and closed with a shattering force. The resounding bang cutting into Natasha's sentence and instantly drawing the pairs attention, their heads jerking to the source of the sudden noise.

She couldn't have landed already— could she?

"I'm here!" Kate yelled, louder than rightly necessary. Her boots landed with a heavy thud against the doormat, haphazardly kicked off and likely smashing Clint's ratty sneakers. "Everybody better have clothes on!"

Clint rolled his eyes. He couldn't help the hushed chuckle, when he called back, "Don't disrespect your elders."

He tidied whatever mess he could reach into a neat, nondescript pile, and couldn't help a sigh from escaping; the mumbled reassurance aimed more at himself than Natasha. "It's going to work."

"Elders shmelders," Kate whined.

"Very mature, Kate," Natasha stated, the corner of her mouth quirked in an easy half-smile. "I see how you two get along so well."

"I resent that," Clint added, voice garbled by the end of a pen held between his teeth.

Waltzing into the lounge, Kate draped her jacket and matching deep-brown scarf over the back of the sofa.

"Didn't know you'd be back today." Clint paused from flipping through a stack of printouts to look up at Kate.

She had grown her hair out, Clint noticed, because he was trying to be the kind of person who noticed those things, and had held it off her face with two wing-shaped barrettes.

He signed, rather than saying it aloud, that the style looked nice on her.

"I sent you, like, thirty texts today, _alone_. What's the point of a phone if you never check it," Kate threw her hands up in defeat and complained. She scoffed at Clint’s signed compliment and, choosing to otherwise ignore him, roamed her shadowed eyes over the clutter. "You look busy."

"The joys of SHIELD." Natasha answered, her fingers tapping against her thigh. "It can't all be high speed helicopter chases and knife-fights."

"You know, if you ever need backup—" Kate brought her hands up in front of her, mimed kicking someone straight in the stomach.

Natasha laughed and slightly shook her head, as fond of Kate as Clint. "I don't think there's anybody I could trust more."

The honest praise spread a wide smile across Kate's face.

Genuine. Sunshine seemed to radiate from her very being.

It spread a warmth in Clint's chest.  
One that he could see, too, in Natasha's eyes when he sought out her gaze.

Kate was good for them.

And, after a ten hour flight, she must have been starving.

Pausing from reading through another of the very few articles on Renner, Clint settled in his chin into his hand, hummed. "There's lasagna in the fridge, Katie Kate. And ask Lucky if he wants some, too."

Kate paused with one hand on the fridge handle. "You make this or buy this?" Her mouth pulled in a sceptical frown.

"Bought it. Trust me, it was for the best; Clint doesn't have a single spice in this whole apartment."

Kate barked out a laugh. Nodding her head in agreement, she dove into the tray of food.

Her trip had tired her out more than she had made it seem.

Not too long after eating her full, Kate ended up asleep on the couch with Lucky curled in a tight ball on her stomach.

The sun falling outside, casting the city closer to evening, marked it time for Nat to leave.

She stopped Clint at his front door as he helped her out. A hand rested on his arm, she lowered her voice and spoke. "It's been three days. I can't hold Fury off forever, Clint."

"I know."

"Just do it quick."

He nodded. He would try.

"And, one more thing?" Nat paused, her hand on the edge of the flaking door.

"Anything."

"Tell Kate."

 

* * *

 

Kate was a lot of things— most good, some not so good— but she wasn't an idiot.

"I'm not an idiot, Clint."

He _knew_ she wasn't an idiot.

"You _know_ that I'm not an idiot."

"Everybody's a little bit of an idiot," Clint sighed and dropped his duffel bag to the couch, cracked his neck stiff from hours spent crawling in a cramped ceiling. SHIELD business.

He artfully avoided the narrow-eyed glare Kate, from where she stood all the way across the room, trained on him.

"Okay, _okay_ , Katie-bird," Clint dropped on the tail end of a resigned sigh, "You're not an idiot."

Narrowed gaze narrowed further, her arm swept a furious arc to the jumble of information tacked to the hidden posterboard. To the printed photographs, the detailed information Natasha had gathered, the sloppy notes Clint had taken.

"Archery— _Good enough_?" Kate read, brow drawing in a furrowed confusion. "Are you in danger again?"

 _Tell Kate._ Natasha had said, only last night.

"Katie Kate." It niggled at him, the uncertainty of how she would react— with nonchalant acceptance _or_ with deserved outrage at what Clint was throwing away. He exhaled, pushed forward anyway. "You promise you try to won't kill me, right?"

 

* * *

 

Some things that Clint had learned in his years alive and working.

One. Nothing could ever truly be a secret; anything can be found out about anybody. Oftentimes with the most minimal work.

Jeremy Renner. Forty-two years old and the oldest of seven siblings. Born in Modesto, California, to Valerie Cearley and Lee Renner.  
Made most of his living over awful commercials and even worse movies.

Easily forgettable. Now _that_ was perfect.

Two. People were predictable and rarely differed; twenty-four hours granted enough time to map out most of a person's entire basic schedule.

A jog around the block that Clint clocked in from five-thirty to six-thirty. Breakfast at a quaint restaurant a corner from his apartment building. Grocery store. Back home. Out to his agent's office, then to a studio.  
Back home.

"You look like you could use a case of hard liquor," was not what Clint intended to be the first thing out of his mouth but, mind blanking the moment Renner stepped through his front door, was what he blurted.

Dark eyes, framed by bloodshot whites and sunken in cheeks, widened. Under his apartment's too yellow light his skin cast him a shade of sickly.

Renner shrugged.

Faced with a possible burglar— a _definite_ trespasser— and he just brought his shoulders into a shrug.

"I'm supposed to be an actor. They won't even cast me in Days of Our Lives. _Days_ _. Of Our Goddamn. Lives_!"

Clint had expected more screaming. More things thrown at him and more threats of calling in the police.

He scratched at the back of his head. _What to do now?_

_What to do?_

He should have brought Kate.

"Sucks, man," Clint finally settled for. "Life."

"Yeah." And Renner looked away from Clint, bobbing his head slowly as he awkwardly drew out the word. "You're here to kill me, or what?"

" _Kill you?_ Why would I kill you?"

Again, Jeremy offered a shrug. "You break into my home and don't steal anything. You stay behind once I arrive. _Seems_ like you _might_ want to kill me."

Clint shook his head, no. "I'm not here to kill you, Jeremy."

"You're not? Wait. You know my name? Yiu know who I am?"

"You did all your own stunts in _Robin Hood: Zombies and Outlaws,_ didn't you?" he asked, taking Natasha's approach.

He had done the research, had watched every one of the few videos of Renner training for his first leading role.

The light in Renner's eyes, however, when Clint asked made Clint wish he were here for more than his own purposes.

"Yeah— Yes!" Renner answered. "I trained for _months._ Practiced for hours every single day."

Clint hummed under his breath, a barely audible approving melody.

He threw his bow across the tiny living room, catching Renner right in the centre of his chest. "You hit that target." Clint pointed over his shoulder to the cheap glass sitting on the windowsill. "I'm here to offer you a job."

 

* * *

 

"So..." Kate drifted off. Her fingers picked at the rip in her jeans. "This is it, huh? You're just throwing in the towel." Looking away, Kate scoffed.

Maybe— most likely, in fact— he was the idiot between them. "This isn't _it_. This isn't me throwing in any kind of towel."

"Sure."

"I've been doing this for so many years. I've been doing this since way before you were born, Katie-bird. Y'know." Clint fumbled. His words were little birds, and their talons tore up his mouth and their wings pressed and pressed _and pressed_ at his lips until they were free and he was left with nothing but forgotten feathers. "I'm—"

"What?"

"I'm tired." He sighed. "Too tired to be an Avenger."

Kate nibbled at her bottom lip. Her eyes darted around the room, she looked anywhere but at him.

"Are we gonna do the whole retirement thing?" she asked, eventually.

"We?"

"Yeah. You know, hiring an RV, hitting the road, travelling across the country."

Riding on waves of relief, Clint raised his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "Why not? We can go anywhere, Katie," he said, voice soft. "We can be Hawkeye anywhere. We don't need to _be_ Hawkeye to _be_ Hawkeye."

At those last words, Kate nodded.

Then, a smile spread across her face, rucking the corners of her eyes into a series of creases. "We should visit the West Coast."

"No." 

 

* * *

 

Sunlight stretched in lean planes across the dust-covered floor.

Clint looked around at his home.  
The apartment stood silent, empty but for the furniture and mildew-and-smoke smell, for the peeling paint and stained carpets, that he would be leaving behind.

He toed at a loose floorboard, let out a large breath.

He hadn't been too sure of what to do with his now plentiful time. Or, when faced with her once again mentioning it, of whether to actually commit to Kate's roadtrip plans. And now—

"Thought I would drop in and say goodbye." The sound of Natasha's voice followed the gentle tap of her low-heeled boots, cutting into his reverie.

Clint cast her a tiny smile. "It's not forever, Tasha," he said. But she wasn't that sentimental of a person, not for all she cared. "And? How's he fitting in?"

It had weighed on him— tugged at his mind and pulled his edges into frays— that day he had sent Jeremy in his place with nothing but a borrowed life and a nonsense prayer.

He should have known better than to doubt Natasha, and her abilities.

Hands settled in her coat pockets and spread wide briefly, Natasha shrugged. "No worse than you."

"Did he shoot at a god yet?"

Her laugh was sudden, a short crisp snort that scrunched up her nose. "No, not yet. Thor seems to be taking a liking to him— he's his _tiny bird_ _friend,_ if I remember correctly."

"Huh. I'm really missing out on something, aren't I?"

Natasha shook a head and, the remnants of the laugh still dancing in her eyes, murmured, "It differs."

And Clint looked at Natasha then, _really_ looked at her, knowing that the lives they lead made the promise of a _next time_ substantial at best. Skin folded into wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, danced with the lines etched around her mouth; greying strands intertwined amongst the head of deep red hair falling to her shoulders.

Where had the time gone?  
When had they all begun to so steadily age?

"Thank you." Before Clint could think twice, he pulled Natasha into a strong hug. Surprised, it took her a moment to settle into the tight embrace; to wrap her arms tighter around Clint’s waist and rest her chin on his shoulder. "Thank you. For everything."

"Hey," she said, low enough for only the two of them to hear, "Fury says 'good luck.'"

One of the remaining duffel bags shouldered, Natasha walked Clint past a few well-wishing neighbours still tipsy from the goodbye party they held the night before and into the street.

The door clicked shut and Clint couldn't help tuning into the part of himself that insisted he was closing the door on a whole chapter of his life, that he needed to unpack the car and head back upstairs to his apartment. Head back to his old life.

"Stop thinking about it," Nat hissed. Looping her arm around his, she steered him down the remaining few steps.

"So, former acting interim superintendent and ownership candidate," Kate, leaning against her car in baggy jeans and oval sunglasses set low on her nose, began in way of greeting, flashing Nat and Clint a grin. "Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime?"

"SHIELD agent, remember? I have enough adventures to _last_ me a lifetime."

Natasha's simple wristwatch beeped.

"Work calls," she explained, quickly dropping Clint’s bag in the backseat where the only other one was stuffed.

"Kick a guy in the face for me?"

"For you, _Katie_." Natasha flicked Kate on the shoulder, smiling at her muted grumbling. "Of course."

She cast an appraising look over both of them. When she sighed, a little smile turned the corners of her mouth upwards.

She placed a hand on each of their shoulders, squeezed. "Hawkeye and Hawkeye," she said. "The most destructive duo I know. Look after each other, okay, because if you die or end up in prison you're on your own."

"I'm really feeling the love, Nat," Clint deadpanned.

He had already gotten the _I know Kate can take care of herself much better than you can take care of yourself but if you do not look after her I will kill you where you stand_ speech. Twice.  
As if he wouldn't already rather give everything he had, and everything he didn't have, to keep Kate safe.

Natasha watched them hop into the car. The wind tugged at her hair and she stood, ignoring whatever her work call was, and waved Clint and Kate off until they rounded a corner.

"You sure you want to do this, Katie Kate?" Clint asked, distractedly tapping his fingers against the worn steering wheel.

Kate clicked her seatbelt into place. Rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be, _Clintie Clint._ Besides, I've got to work on my tan."

"Don't call me Clintie Clint ever again," he groused, suppressed laughter in his voice.

"Hmm—" Kate exaggerated. "No."

 

* * *

 

The sun broke over the horizon.

They had driven for no less than an hour when Lucky started to shift in the backseat. Restless of the road and ready to be free once again.

"Oh oh oh—" Kate had slapped Clint’s arm, pointing to the bend in the road up ahead. "Turn in here and let's get Lucky out before he messes up my car."

He drove into a town that was all low buildings and tall trees.

Quaint; the type of place that never could really pull itself away from the aesthetic of the fifties.

"Just a _short_ rest," he reminded Kate, stopping the car near the entrance to the town's park.

"I know. C'mon, Lucky, let's get you out of this tin can and reacquainted with the real world."

Their short rest turned into a picnic lunch had in the shade of an aging oak and with Lucky switching between chasing butterfly and stealing bites of food from their plates.

Which then turned into a tour of the town's art museums, Kate wrapping her fingers around Clint’s wrist and dragging him to the nearest one.

"Culture!" she exclaimed, dramatically throwing up her free arm and drawing the attention of the elderly couple slipping in ahead of them. "That's what you need, Barton! A little bit of culture!"

Dropping his shoulders, Clint hunched forward and forced out a resigned sigh.

"Your daughter is very cute," one of the old women said later, standing next to them at a large painting.

Clint spluttered. "What— Huh— All due respect but _she_ is not my daughter," he said jutting a thumb at Kate. " _She_ is the painful annoyance I love and can't get rid of."

"Ma'am." Kate leaned around Clint and beamed. Because that's what she did— she was so full of love and light and perfectly cultured manners, she beamed, and she could turn it on and off at will. "I am far too cool to be this man's daughter."

That turned into the couple— Miriam and Luna— inviting them for dinner and a round of board games. And, when the clock passed ten, offering up two of their bedrooms for the night.

It took everything Clint had to crawl out of bed at three the next morning. Early enough to get back on the road and still make their booking.

Kate bounded into the kitchen a few minutes after him. "Good morning," she sang.

Clint glared at Kate— bright-eyed and fresh-faced, her ponytail swishing over her shoulder as she jogged on the spot— over the rim of his fifth cup of bitter, black coffee.

"Not another word." He poured himself a sixth cup.

They left in a flurry of hugs and exchanged numbers and promises to visit soon, a sleeping Lucky curled comfortably in a freely given quilt.

As soon as they were driving again, Clint switched on the stereo. His _B_ _est. Songs. Ever!!_ tape played on full blast, filled the car with tinny bops.

"I hate this," Kate complained. "I'm a classical musician, Clint. _Classical._ "

"And look where that's got you." Clint wagged a finger. "Anyway. Driver gets to choose."

She crossed her arms and trained her eyes on the passing scenery.

Clint turned the music up a notch higher. Flashing Kate a quick grin, he tried to coax. "C'mon, Katie-bird, it's the _Backstreet Boys._ Who doesn't like the _Backstreet Boys_?"

Silent, she extended her middle finger Clint’s way.

" _But we are two worlds apart, can't reach to your heart_ ," Clint crooned loudly. "Join in, Kate. I know you know the words."

"Nope. Don't know a _Backstreet Boy_."

Lucky whined loudly from his bed of blankets, tucked in a corner.

"See, even Lucky's getting into it," Clint exclaimed pointedly.

"He's just reacting to your awful singing." Twisting in the seat, she stretched to scratch Lucky behind his ear. "Aren't you, boy? Yes, you are. Yes, you are."

Clint _tch'd_.

For the most part, he chose to ignore the teasing of his younger and, obviously, less-knowledgeable friend.

Eyes on the road, he tugged a half-empty Coke bottle from the cup holder in which it was lodged and pulled it to his mouth. " _Tell me why_ ," he sang right into it. Loud enough that when he shoved the bottle in Kate's vague direction he drowned out her irritated exhale.

He caught the roll of her eyes and smiled, bright and encouraging.

Urging her with a nudge of his elbow, he pushed the bottle closer to her face.

Kate leaned forward into the bottle. Disgruntled, she sang, " _Ain't nothing but a heartbreak!"_

"Yeah!" Clint cheered. " _Ain't nothing but a mistake!"_ he continued, holding the bottle between them and rushing to join Kate in the rest of the chorus.

" _Tell me why_." They picked up together. Raising their voices to battle the radio and the early morning birds. " _I never wanna hear you say... I want it that way!"_

Kate barked out a laugh. Looking to Clint and meeting his eyes, they both dissolved into giggles.

"See. What'd I tell you?"

"Not bad." She tapped her finger against the dashboard. "Play it again."

Twenty minutes later— not much more than an hour since they had left— and Kate sat passed out. Her face smashed against the door, breath creating a layer of fine mist across the window.

Honestly, Clint had thought around another huge yawn, turning on the news at the lowest volume, he could use a few extra hours of sleep himself.

But now, a mile from the hotel and the sun breaking through an ink sky, Clint couldn't remember a time he felt more awake; a time when he felt more alive.  
He couldn't stop himself from beaming.

"Hey, Katie Kate," he stage-whispered, reaching out to gently shake Kate awake. "Look. Look at all that purple."

"And pink and orange," Kate mumbled. Half-closed eyes and  barely intelligible voice thick with clung-to sleep, she wiped away a long line of drool. "Wuh— It's pretty."

"You think it's some kind of a sign?"

"I don't think anything at all." Kate drew her knees to her chest, closed her eyes and leaned back into the door. "But, yeah, Clint, I think it's a sign."

 

* * *

 

Stretched poolside along a pair of lounge chairs, Clint watched Lucky play an enthusiastic game of catch with another of the hotel's residents.

He glanced over at Kate.

Her floppy sunhat easily able to offer shade to one other person, she sipped on a piña colada to match Clint's own.

"This," he exhaled, "is the life."

"Uh hm," she hummed around her straw.

A quiet fell over the pool and, without a note of warning, Kate bolted upright. "Clint? Something's wrong."

Glass placed aside, the drink spilling down the side pooling on the small lounge-side table, Kate stood.

"Wh—?"

Hurrying to the crowded bar, Kate beckoned over her shoulder for Clint to follow. "Something's wrong," she repeated, urgent.

 _Aw._ Clint dropped his head back. _No._

His second day of retirement and already there was a crisis.  
Prime Hawkeye luck.

They pushed to the front of the thickening group that had formed alongside the counter. Each person staring, balancing precariously on the ledge between enthralled and terrified, at the news report playing on the small television.

"— in what appears to be extraterrestrial lifeforms summoned by a man claiming to be the Norse god of mischief, Loki, himself," the news anchor said, her voice remaining level. An image of destruction played in a corner of the screen, above her shoulder. "An evacuation plan for inhabitants of and around New York City has been set in motion."

Fighting his way out and back into welcome open air, Clint stretched his arms over his head and tried to tug at the tension in his back.  
He figured he and Kate could still go in for massages after this.

The footage of the Avengers had been fleeting. Clint catching only a glimpse of them before the video cut to a city in destruction.

They looked good. A little forced in the way they worked together, but good.

Kate followed him out. Hands on her hips and mouth drawn in a grim line, she watched him. "They're getting their assess kicked."

"Eh. Nat's there, they'll win. How's our boy doing?"

Kate raised her shoulders, at a loss. "He's there."

Clint mirrored her loose shrug. What more could he do?

Lucky nudged at Clint's bare foot. Whimpering and missing the new friend he had made and lost to the news, he nudged the foot again.

"As long as he's not dead, right?" Clint offered, bending to give Lucky a pat on the head. "As long as he's not dead, everything's good."

God. He was just happy he wasn't an Avenger.

 

* * *

 

A shrill, consistent, ringing broke through a shroud of heavy sleep.  
Unrepentantly dragged Clint awake.

"Barton." he answered, voice gruff from sleep.

"Hey. Uh. It's Jeremy." He let an expectant second pass. " _Renner_."

Clint rubbed a hand over his eyes, down his face. The clock flashing two a.m seemed a mocking reminder of the sleep he could be having.  
He exhaled heavily. As Jeremy's pause drew out longer, Clint regretted getting so drunk that he had passed out with his hearing aids in and still on.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry, it's late, I know. It's all a bit— _a_ _lot—_ more than I was expecting, but, uh, it's not any of that," Jeremy rambled, before falling into an abrupt quiet. The sound of him scratching at his face carried through the phone. "What... What _happened_ in Budapest?"

Clint buried his face flat into his pillow. Lucky whined in his sleep as the bed shook and Clint let out a muffled, exhausted, groan.

 

* * *

 

He didn't always know where they were heading, and he didn't think Kate was too sure either.

They drove semi-aimlessly most of the time.

Drifters, rising some mornings to the sun falling over them through the cars  windows and other mornings to hotel room comfort.  
Place to place, they moved. Sometimes for a day, sometimes for long enough that local shopkeepers knew their names and baristas could _almost_ guess their exact coffee orders.

 

* * *

 

"You could use the tan," Kate insisted, flicking a glance to Clint.

"Eyes on the road,"  Clint warned.

Lucky's head rested in Clint's lap.  
Clint ran a hand in soothing strokes down the dog's side. Making gentle _shushing_ sounds into his fur every time he whined, Clint whispered, "You've been through worse, buddy. It's okay. You've been through worse. You're okay," and hoped Lucky could not read the hints of worry in his voice.

Sure, Lucky had suffered through far worse than a leg broken from trying to chase squirrels up trees. But he was younger then. And he wore his brittle age much like Clint wore his own.

Kate threw the Xbox controller aside. The car she had been controlling swerved wildly out of control, screeched, crashed headfirst into a wall.

Clint winced.

"You're going." Kate stabbed a finger at Clint.

"I'm looking after Lucky."

"Meri will look after him," she reasoned, narrowing her eyes as Clint began his protest. "It's _Natasha._ We haven't seen her in _forever_ and we _miss_ her _._ It's one afternoon. You're going."

He mulled it over. "Meri's a vet, right?"

They hadn't called Miami home for too many days when Lucky had gotten injured. Then it looked like it would be home for a half of a year, at least.

He knew considerably less about the city than Kate. And when she slipped out before him, it took Clint a good hour of wandering into different cafés before he spotted the telltale red hair.

"You look good," Nat said. Her eyes lingered on Clint’s face, trailed down his front and over the loose purple button-up he wore. "Where's Kate?"

"I think she's out shopping. Or something." The distant shriek police sirens reached the café. "Probably stopping a robbery. Or whatever that is."

Natasha smiled into her espresso. "A Hawkeye and their work. Or is it a Hawkeye and their knack for getting into trouble... Though... I don't suppose you go by that name anymore."

Clint made to speak.

The bell over the door tinkled, cutting him off before he began.

New rips in her jeans that hadn't been there three hours ago, a fresh pair of band-aids haphazardly pressed over her left brow and across the bridge of her nose, Kate barreled inside.

Covered in more bruises than he could count, Kate slumped in the chair Natasha kicked out for her.

She grinned, wide and tinged with post-fight adrenaline, at both Nat and Clint. "You wouldn't believe how much trouble some people would do for a rare book," she said, grimacing.

"Got you something with whipped cream," Clint told her, sliding the large mug of coffee to Kate's waiting hand.

"I take it went well," Natasha nudged.

Leaning forward on her elbows, she raised a fuzzy eyebrow at Kate.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" Cream stained the corners of her mouth, instantly erasing any sharpness in her voice. She raised her mug in a mock cheers. "I count _that_ as a win."

Kate downed her coffee and jumped up to get a refill.

"You know she's gonna... Y'know... Bombard you with questions when she gets back," Clint warned, tapping his mug to Natasha's.

"I know. It's not that bad to get to talk about myself."

Kate fell back into the chair. Coffee sloshed onto the table when she set the cup down.

Folding her arms over each other, she leaned forward and trained her eyes on Natasha.

Swiftly, she pressed for Natasha to tell them everything— including _and_ excluding Avengers, Kate made specifically stressed— they had missed in her life.

Natasha gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "Fought a maniacal Norse god. Dismantled a secret Nazi organization hidden in SHIELD. All in a day's work."

Time passed. Time passed so slowly and too quickly.

Natasha spoke. Clint drank in her every word, the every crinkle of her nose when she laughed and each slip of narrative she allowed.

When Clint next looked at the clock, he was surprised at the needle ticking closer to half an hour after noon.

Keeping a close eye on Kate leaning against the counter and flirting with one of the waitresses while waiting for her third coffee order to be ready, Clint tapped his fingers against the tabletop.

Natasha touched the tip of a fork to his hand. "What are you thinking?"

"How long are you staying?" Clint asked, giving her his full attention again.

"Until tomorrow afternoon. I have to still see Lucky, remember?"

"Perfect! Watch the fireworks with us tonight. It's—"

"Chinese New Year's. I know."

Of course she coincided her visit for this day.

Of everything Clint loved about Natasha, that subtle thoughtfulness meant the most to him.

"We can't do anything this year like we've usually done every other year." He shook his head. "I don't want to leave Lucky alone. But I... I just... I want Katie to feel at home, even though she's not at home right now."

That night, Natasha's knock on their front door sent Lucky into a fit of excited barks.

After the flurry of exchanging kisses and gifts, Nat handed Clint her light coat and pushed beyond him and further into the apartment.

She spotted Lucky in his small bed of handknit quilts and, regarding him with a questioning brow raised, pouted.

"Hey!" Kate yelled from around the balcony door. "You made it. Come on out." She beckoned Natasha and popped her head back around.

"This won't do," Nat murmured, more for her own sake than for Lucky's or Clint’s. Careful not to hurt him, Natasha gathered Lucky, blankets and all, into her arms. "This won't do at all. Let's get you outside with the rest of us."

The three of them sat bundled close under a much too large quilt, Clint's homemade cocoa in their hands and Lucky sprawled across their laps.

The first firework went off and Kate cheered.

Clint bumped his shoulder into Natasha's, she bumped him back.

He was happy.

He was at peace.

 

* * *

 

One year later, with Lucky healed enough to run ten laps if he ever wanted to, Kate and Clint blindfolded each other and took turns throwing darts at a scrappy hand-drawn map of LA and it's surroundings.

"What's there?" Kate asked, running a finger over the town's name.

"Dunno." Clint shrugged, reading over her shoulder. "Just hope it doesn't kill us. Or eat us alive."

 

* * *

 

"You doing good, Katie-bird?" voice raised to be heard over Lucky's cheer-filled barking, Clint called.

He poked a stick at the slowly growing fire.

The work was tedious, and he tried to remember what he had seen in all those Bear Grylls shows.  
An advantage to Clint, however: he had a box of matches.

Leaning over the map spread across the hood of the car, her tongue stuck out to the side, Kate scratched a pencil to her forehead.

She raised her shoulders to her hears, dropped them. Tracing her eyes over the twisting roads, Kate called back, "This is harder to do than I thought it would be. A map, _Clint_. A fucking _map!_ "

Their GPS— stuck; it's loading screen the only playback since they had left another backwater amongst many other backwaters two hours ago— lay helpless on the floor of the car.

The specifics of where they were or where they were going was lost to the both of them.

Scrutinising the crumpled map beside a gentle fire seemed to Clint to be the best way to greet their current predicament.

"Huh—" Kate sounded. "There's a town not far from here. We could _probably_ make it there before eight tonight. If we book it, and we don't get lost."

Clint sighed, painfully long-suffering. "We _could..._ But don't you want to enjoy this moment. The feel of nature. Th _e smell—_ " he inhaled sharply, "of nature."

"Weirdo." Kate said, pulling her mouth into a thin line.

"Just you, me, and the world's best dog."

At the praise, Lucky licked the side of Clint’s hand. Barking once more, he bounded back into the high-rising grass after the field mice.

Clint set a sweet smile on Kate.

"Okay. Okay," he placated, "I understand if me and Lucky aren't worthy of your company. But you're really gonna turn down roasted marshmallows? _S'mores_?"

Her narrowed eyes passed over the bags of marshmallows and chocolate crackers on either side of Clint. "S'mores _do_ sound good. But an actual bed and shower sounds better."

That same smile growing wider, more convincing, Clint shook the marshmallows again at Kate.

If he knew anyone, he knew Kate. And she couldn't say no to sweets.

"Low blow!" Kate threw her hands up in exasperation.

Haphazardly stashing the map back into her car, she closed the distance and dropped herself into the rickety chair next to Clint's.

"Fair is fair," he said, handing over a stick and the marshmallows.

"You're exploiting my weaknesses."

"Not for me." Clint gestured at Lucky chasing fireflies around the clearing, his tail wagging wildly, tongue lolling in the wind. "For him."

The sun fell further beneath the horizon, the chill that fell with darkness fought aside by the crackling fire.

Kate rolled her eyes at Clint. "Exploiting my weaknesses again. One of these days, Clintie Clint—"

"That's the stupidest nickname—"

"One of the these days!" she exclaimed, stretching to get nearer to the fire. "You'll see."

 

* * *

 

There were good days, of course, and days so wonderful he would have been happy if they never ended.

Days that took him three tries to get out of bed and to wherever Kate was having breakfast, if she was even up for it.

Days that were so painfully ordinary Clint could have cried from the blissful normalcy.

And some days... Some days Clint would wake to the shine of sunlight through his windows, clear blue skies, laughter floating upstairs to dance through the room. And Clint would turn the other way and go right back to sleep.

Kate slouched into his room that morning, a pot of coffee in her hand.

"Bad day?" she asked with a subtle tip of her chin. Clint groaned his reply and Kate set the coffee on the side table. "Yeah," she whispered, slipping under the covers and into the other side of the bed, "Me too."

"Thanks for the coffee."

"That's all for me." She passed it over to him anyway. "Front desk said their golf course can cure any sadness spell. You up for it, old man?"

Clint thought it over. "Not today."

"Yeah." Without much effort, Kate got the coffeepot back. "Me neither."

A cocoon of gentle quiet, broken only by Lucky shifting and ruffling the sheets, fell around them.

He didn't have to settle into it, didn't have to explain anything and didn't expect Katie to explain anything in turn.

It was enough, for them, to exist separately in the same space, tracing the cracks in the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

"I think. I think i'm tired of life on the road," Kate quietly began, much later into that afternoon. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she reached out to scratch Lucky behind the ear and avoided catching Clint's eye. At the touch, Lucky rolled to his side. Kate smiled. "I think Lucky's tired, too."

Clint scratched at his chin. Little tufts of hair grew an uncultivated line of stubble.

The window looked out over a valley, rolling hills and green grass as far as he could see.

Both strange and familiar; he wondered if he had ever stopped over in this town as a child.

"I _am_ kinda missing the old place," Clint mused. He sipped at his bitter piping coffee, shrugged. "And, I guess, I _am_ retired now, so I should be racking up points at the local country club."

Kate shook her head. Dark hair flying in her face, she let out a laugh. "Golf? Good to see you finally giving into your old age."

He pulled her from the bed and pushed her out the room.

 

* * *

 

They hadn't accumulated much in all their time spent on the road.  
Enough, Clint noted, to fill one large duffel bag between the two of them.

He wouldn't always consider himself sentimental. _Yet._ It pained him a little bit, that night when their bags were stacked and ready to be picked up near the door, and there was only one added piece of luggage.

He should have bought more; should have saved more, should have kept more than one thing from each place.

He should have taken more for Natasha.

"Hey, old man." Katie popped her head around the room door then. "You interested in seeing how many dogs just filled the lobby?" smiling from ear to ear, she exclaimed her question.

Clint huffed a surprised laugh.

Kate had handed him a pair of scissors that morning— "for a bit of change," she had said, "before we get back home."  
With the help of Clint’s sleep-bleary eyes and reliably steady hand, she had chopped off most of her hair. And it swayed, charmingly uneven, at the stretch of her shoulders.

Kate waggled her eyebrows, exaggeratedly inviting and pulling an easy smile from Clint.

_What am I thinking?_

He wouldn't need any little things to remember their trip. It would take the world's most powerful memory eraser to make him forget; it would take more.

Shaking his head, he placed his hands on his hips. "Big dogs or tiny dogs?" he questioned.

" _Really_ fucking _tiny_."

 

* * *

 

Clint knew moving back to the city meant not seeing Kate as much.

Socialite and a better superhero than Clint could be; the life beckoned her and she welcomed it fondly.

Clint... He just did whatever kept him under the radar and away from most of the Avengers.

Then Ultron happened, and the destruction of Sokovia was plastered everywhere he looked.

Uncertainty playing in restless circles in the pit of his stomach, Clint thought that maybe it was time to talk to Jeremy again.

His apartment was huge. An entire wall of windows looked over the city and sleek stairs curved up to the second floor.

"This is where you live?" Clint blurted, looking around.

How much more was SHIELD _paying_ these guys?

Jeremy dusted a gathering of crumbs off the counter and into the palm of his hand. "Sometimes. But I don't really like it, y'know." Nonchalantly dismissive. "Got a farm not too far from here, that's where my heart it."

"A farm?"

"Yeah."

Clint frowned. "I could never—" Jeremy cut a sharp glare at him. Clint coughed, swallowed the rest of his sentence. "Hm," he hummed, looking away and to the figurines lining one of the bookshelves— ballerinas in motion, coloured the pale pink of shells. "These are cute."

"You can take one," Jeremy said, offering a tray of assorted drinks that Clint refused. "They came with the place."

The one stood dead center balanced on the tips of her toes, her arms extended over her head as she stretched gracefully to the ceiling.

Pocketing the palm-sized figure, Clint murmured a stilted, "Thanks."

Kate would love it, he was sure.

But that wasn't what he came for, and he really couldn't put it off any longer.

"I just," Clint paused. Waving his hand listlessly he turned to look at Jeremy. "I thought I should see how you're doing. After the... After Ultron."

"It wasn't the first time I almost died on the job." His briskness edged out the humour he aimed for. "I'm okay."

"Are you sure—"

"Look, Clint," Jeremy interrupted. "You gave me a bow and stranded me for, what, four years. I'm grateful for what you did and I'm grateful you came to check up on me, but we're not what anybody would call friends."

"You're right. You're right." Clint raised his hands in surrender. He agreed, they weren't friends. "Hawkeye to Hawkeye, then. How _are_ you holding up after Ultron?"

Jeremy touched the front of his shoe to the table leg. His smile was faint, but it was there.

 

* * *

 

Moving back to the city did mean one other good thing: he got to see Natasha a whole lot more.

She had dinner with him and Kate most nights. Sometimes— when Kate left early in the night and they were sitting just the right distance apart— Clint would wake to Natasha in his borrowed sweatshirt hanging to just above her knees. Her hair a nest of tangled red, lighting up the drabby kitchen with a laugh and the spark in her eye, she would stay for breakfast, too.

It was almost domestic. Very near to what they could have had if they weren't two different people living two completely different lives.

But Clint loved it, regardless.  
And he was good at keeping occupied when she was away on a mission.  
Even better at enjoying her company when she tagged along with him and Kate on her rare days free.

 

* * *

 

Time passed so slowly. So quickly.  
And the years flew by faster than he could keep track of them.

*

"They're fighting each other in a parking lot!" he yelled into his phone.

"They're wh— Who—" Kate answered, groggy from sleep. "It's... Noon... Clint... Are you high?"

"The Avengers, Katie Kate, it's all over the news. They're fighting each other in some parking lot in, like, Berlin, or somewhere."

Kate dropped her head to her pillow, muffled her laugh. "Man, aren't you glad you retired?"

He was.

He remembered the Falcon getting shot out of the sky, the guy with a metal arm beside Captain America's side, the Spider-Man who was roughly smaller than Kate's size, and Clint really was happy he was retired.

Letting Kate go back to sleep, he hung up and tried to get through to Jeremy.

 

* * *

 

"So. How is he holding up?" she threw over her shoulder.

"Watch out, Katie-bird. Behind you."

Kate kicked out at one of the jumpsuit wearing weirdoes who had tried to advance on her from behind.

The bend of her knee to the man's groin, she stopped him in his tracks and threw him across the room.

Clint cheered.

"I mean, first there's an evil robot bent on destroying the world and now your team's split in two?" she continued, words catching on her jagged breaths. "I'd be a little bummed out."

From out of nowhere, a fist found the side of his head.

"He's doing okay," he said. Barely dodging the next punch thrown, Clint swept the man off his feet with a swift kick to the shins and winced at the crack of skull against concrete. "Or, pretty close to okay."

The static in his ear grew louder.

"If it were... Mmm thing... You think?"

 _Not again._ The static was definitely worse than the usual silence.

Clint hit his palm to the hearing aids.

Damn things had been on their last leg of life for weeks— quieting at random and crackling deafeningly in his ear— and the punch seemed to have finished what a fall from an ancient oak tree couldn't do.

Kate regarded him, expectantly. "If it were me in his position," she fluidly switched to sign, "I'd be mad as hell at everything. He seems to just... live... with things. Why do you think?"

"Dunno. He's alive and, secret Hawkeye to secret Hawkeye, that's the best we can ask for."

"Mm." Kate readjusted her quiver. "I guess."

Humming tunelessly under his breath, Clint surveyed the damage they had caused in the five short minutes since they had entered the jewellery store; shattered glass spewed in streaks across the floor, diamond rings sprinkled amidst.

The storekeepers, wherever they had run out the back door to, were either going to have a heart attack or be very grateful when they returned.

Clint grimaced thinly. Hoped it would be the latter.

Outside, a truck honked loudly, and it was a headache shooting right through Clint’s skull.

He ripped off the pair of faulty hearing aids and shoved them into his back pocket.

"How long did _those_ last you?" Kate signed. She had picked up a cane from one of the jumpsuit weirdos, leaning on its handle, purple glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, she exuded all kinds of  smug. "Six months? Hm?"

Eyes narrowed, he answered, "Five."

Satisfied, Kate dropped the cane and threw an arm over Clint's shoulders.

Leaning into Clint she easily directed them both out the front of the store. Her smug grin stayed firmly in place, refusing to budge from creasing her face into its look of ungracious victory.

"Well well well," she said, sliding off of Clint. "Seems like _somebody_ owes _somebody_ _else_ a steak dinner."

 _Aw._ _Honestly?_ Clint groaned. He had forgotten about their stupid bet, made after a weekend of no sleep and binge-watching hilariously crappy 70s cartoons.

He could hear Natasha chiding him— Clint of all people— at making the wager.

"Will _somebody else_ settle for a taco?" he probed.

Kate pulled her face into a thoughtful scrunch; into an exaggerated pout as she tapped her chin with a bitten and worried fingertip. "Hmm..." she mused. " _Somebody_ _else_ might."

All teeth, crooked and folding into his wrinkles, Clint smiled.

He held out his arm for Kate and she dutifully linked hers through it.

When anybody— quite entirely regardless of where they were in the city— glanced up, they could catch a glimpse of Avengers tower.  
He saw it now, one of a thousand skyscrapers marring the skyline and blocking a perfect afternoon sun from falling over himself and Kate.

And he thought— as they stood in line in front of a busy taco truck, jostling against the restless New York City crowd— this was all the upsides to not being an Avenger.

"You gonna pay or you gonna stare at me the whole day?" the elderly chef pointedly asked, glaring holes into Clint’s forehead after handing Kate the food.

And this, Clint resigned. This was the downside to not being an Avenger.

"Hey," Clint said, holding up a crumpled ball of ten one dollar notes. "You got a five somewhere in all those pockets, Katie-bird, or are you just emptily honouring the nineties with your look?"

"Fucking Barton. Seriously?"

"You love me. I'm charming." He offered another grin.

Renner was probably off-world, fighting on some distant alien planet. Or, stuck behind a desk doing _mounds_ and _mounds_ of boring ceaseless paperwork.

And Clint was here, eating one of the most delightfully average tacos in New York City with his best friend.

Kate grunted around a too large mouthful. Swallowed. "I do not love you. You're not charming. And aren't you also rich?"

His infuriating, incredible, annoying best friend.

"I have money, yes," he emphasised, "but I don't just carry all of it everywhere."

"Cheapskate." She bumped her shoulder into his.

Pretty soon into their stroll, and without much prompt, she threw herself into wildly narrating some crime she and a few of her newfound superhero friends had stopped.

Clint thought about the Avengers— fighting and saving the world and only coming together for whatever crisis the world needed them to stop.

Clint thought thought Barney, his brother who he hadn't seen in years.  
He thought about Natasha, the way she looked first thing in the morning with her hair in every direction and sleep crusting her eyes.

He thought about Kate.

He slipped back into the moment with Kate.

The wind caught her hair right then, tickled against her face, and she giggled despite herself around the rest of her story.

Man, he was glad he retired.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on [bartoncfrancis](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bartoncfrancis)


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